Matters of Chance
by thesummerstorms
Summary: An AU ending to "Angels Take Manhattan". It's only chance that saves them, in the end, the tiniest of decisions. But it is enough, and the Doctor knows now that he'll never let them go. First Doctor Who fic, unpolished. No real emphasis on pairings.


**A/N:** Takes place at the very end of "The Angels Take Manhattan." An alternative, AU ending, because while the episode was beautifully done- I wept, especially when I saw the Doctor's face- I'm no better with endings than he is, and it feels like it somehow still came to soon. So I wrote this, so that in some little corner of my brain, the adventures of the Doctor and his Ponds continues. Very quickly done, not proofread, and probably not much good, but it serves its purpose, I think.

* * *

I do not own Doctor Who. Obviously.

He doesn't see it. That makes all the difference.

The name on the headstone is the End. It is the closing line, the last line on the last page of the book. It is the curtain that falls silently across the stage, scattering all the players into the night.

But they haven't seen it. Not the Doctor or River. Not Amy.

Not Rory.

Timelines- they're such slippery, malleable things. The Doctor and his companions have reason to know. But they don't know they're brushing shoulders with fate, how close they come to falling back into its pull. It comes down, in the end, to a split few seconds. A single choice. A simple one, insignificant at first glance.

But in the end it is everything.

They are standing so close together, the Doctor and his Ponds. He breathes in deep, grinning in relief, exhausted by the sheer weight of it.

"Doctor! Next time can we just go the pub?"

"I want to go to the pub, right now! Are there video games there? I love video games!"

"Right. Family outing then."

They turn, one by one, still smiling as they retreat into the safety of the TARDIS.

Except Rory.

People try to run from endings. Certainly, the Doctor does. But they have a way of catching up with you. And so it is that Rory Williams, so recently escaped from Death- his third and fourth, to be precise- thinks he sees something from the corner of his eye. On impulse he turns around, taking a step back towards the gravestones.

Endings, in whatever form they take, hate to be cheated. Rory Williams has cheated them too often, and too well. So they call to him now, manifest as a name on a gravestone, as a stone creature as beautiful and terrible as they are. All he has to do is read the name, and it will be settled. He will belong to them, to the ending of the tale, and their grip, this time, will be sure.

But sometimes, rarely, fortune smiles.

Just as he is about to round the corner, to seal his fate, Amy, on a whimsy, turns away from the TARDIS a second earlier than she might have done otherwise. Such a small thing, a thing of chance.

"Oi! Stupid face!" she shouts, but the words are undermined by the gentleness in her face, by the hand she stretches out towards him as she steps out. "Are you coming or not?"

He grins, turns towards her, shoves one hand in his jacket pocket. The gravestone is forgotten.

He doesn't see it. It makes all the difference.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming."

Rory moves, and from the behind him, she catches a glimpse of something. Just a glimpse. But even that is enough to make the angel freeze.

She gasps. Her hand drops back to her side. He pauses, the Weeping Angel not more than a foot behind him.

"Amy? What's wrong?"

She doesn't dare look at him, doesn't dare look away from the Angel.

"Rory. Rory, run. Don't look. Just run."

And he has spent enough time with the Doctor that he knows better than to question.

He is fast, Rory is. Of course he is. He works, has worked, in the ER. He sprints easily across the short bit of field towards Amy. She grabs him with shaking hands, pulls him back to her, over the threshold of the TARDIS, into safety, then slams the door behind them. The Doctor and River startle behind them, but she ignores their protests and bolts the door. Only then does she dare blink.

"Mother?" River asks, at the same time as Rory says softly, "Amy?"

She shivers, and there is a clawing sound at the door. Rory takes a step back. But they are safe. Thank god, they are safe. The angel is too weak to reach them in the shelter of the TARDIS.

"Too close," she says, then bites her lip and turns to the Doctor. "We should leave."

No one argues. A blue police-box fades into the sunlight, leaving behind the graveyard, leaving behind the looming threat of New York.

"Amy, what was that?"

"A weeping Angel. Behind you. It was a survivor I guess. I got lucky, seeing it when I did. Still, that was too close for comfort."

Rory takes his wife's hand in his, raises it slowly to his lips. She's still trembling, so he slips his other arm around her waist. He doesn't speak. He doesn't have to.

For once the Doctor says nothing, only smiling, though there's a shadow in his eyes. In the end, so many things come down to chance.

But if the End is inevitable, for now they have once again bought themselves more time. His Ponds will not leave him, not today. Maybe not for a long, long time. After all, they have made their choice.

And with the Angels still after Rory, where else could they go? Leadworth is not even an option anymore. He shouldn't be so glad of that, so utterly, selfishly glad. But he can't help it. The Doctor has his Ponds again. He is not alone. His hearts surge as he watches Amy and Rory, their tender embrace, and then turns, smiling quietly to the console, basking in their presence. He is not alone.

Things will be more difficult now, with the Angels in pursuit of Rory. The near-escape proves that. A single moment of inattentiveness might cost him dearly. But the Doctor is willing to accept it, the burden of watching.

He knows what River thinks. That he has to be sheltered from the damages. That he has to be protected from every subtle gasp of time and age and illness, every hint of the mortality that will eventually steal them from him. And maybe she was right once. But not now.

The Doctor will bear it, gladly. He will find a way. Because after brushing so close to loss, to sharp and sudden separation, he knows he could have it no other way. He realized that, seeing them back there on the roof in the 1930s.

His fairy-tale girl, plunging to her death, her red hair a silken flag, a mark of defiance, and the ache in his chest, the raw chorus of his own screams, and the distant realization that he still had so much to tell her. His wonderful, glorious Amelia Pond.

Yes, the roof changed everything.

He will take every moment, fleeting, quiet, ephemeral as they are. There are so many, and so precious, precious few, between now and the end. The Doctor intends to seize them all.

"Doctor!"

The voice startles him out of his reverie, and he turns to see Amy staring at him, hands on hips, Rory behind her grinning. "Are you coming?"

He straightens his bow-tie, smooths his hair, then joins them, turning them towards the door where River is already waiting, smiling in the sunlight, and throws his arms over both their shoulders.

"Of course. You know, I think I'm in a celebratory mood. Angels defeated, Ponds saved, the Winter Quay erased from time. Do you think we could find some custard...?"

Together they step back out into the world, and somewhere in New York, and old battered gravestone fades away, defeated.

The end will come, that is inevitable, and all other things are a matter of chance. But for now he has his family, his Ponds.

The Doctor will hold them close, as close as he can.


End file.
